The Curse-Rotted Greatwood
by seriousnoel
Summary: A short story I wrote about the curse-rotted greatwood, one of the few spirit trees in the Dark Souls universe. Spirit trees are a part of the lore that we still know so little about, so I felt inspired to write a bit about one of them. Contains no spoilers.


Before there was ruin.

Before there was ash.

There was a tree.

This tree, blessed with a soul was indeed nothing ordinary. Only a few like it, remained across the lands.

A being, born as radiantly pure as this tree only knew of kindness. As the people of this land stumbled upon it, they were amazed by it's nature and soon the message was spread.

No one was excluded, no one was sent away. The tree attracted folks of all kinds, desendents of all kins and kingdoms.

The people who loved the tree, cherished it's soothing presence. They wanted to stay near to it forever, so it came that they build a settlement.

Only starting with a few tents, the settlement soon started spreading across the valley, homes started sprouting. The more people came and called it home, the more they sought a home of it's own fit for their spiritual leader.

Stone was hauled out of the earth, broken and rearranged to build a monument, that would serve as a home for the tree. Proud of the effort they've made, it spread it's branches more than ever and with it also it's kindness. Affected by their devotion, it grew and grew and it became great, so it was that they called it the greatwood.

Proud were the small humans, proud of what they created and proud of the honest love they would receive. They found something which was holy to them and they were holy to it as well. All things were good.

Or at least it seemed so. Things won't and shant stay the same. They never do. The inhabitants of the settlement had to learn this lesson as a thing so terrible crept into their midst. The Darksign. A curse of a horrid nature.

Spreading.

Dying.

Forgetting.

Tis the curse of the undead. A neverending cycle of misery.

No one knew, infected or not, how to help themselves anymore. It seemed 'twas to late for them. Growing delusional from the fear of the Darksign, they soon saw a curse, a threat, in everything.

They had only one hope left and so it was that they turned to their beloved, to their greatwood. The artifacts, they believed to be cursed, adding to their plight, were brought before it and they prayed and cried so full of sorrow and the greatwood listened. Never before had it witnessed so much desperation, so much fear.

With a divine cry that shook the earth, it's bark broke and the greatwood cleaved itself for them. Sealing them underneath it's thick wooden skin, the people could get rid of their curses forever. The settlers found relief and so one after another, they buried their curses, deep inside the greatwood.

Out of kindness the tree acted and with ignorance for the damage it brought on itself, it carried on with this obscene act. Blinded by the curse, the people fed it with dark things that would slowly poison it from within.

Retreating in size but growing cancerous lumps all over, bending under the weight of the curses, the greatwood let this march to the grave carry on while it kept swallowing, rotting from within. For a long time it seemed like nothing would change. The blinded undead would carry on with their senseless mission, gathering curses so that they could feed them to their silent saviour, who was hardly a tree anymore, standing tall and upright, but a degenerate growth, one with sense could only pity. But there was no sense left in the settlement of the undead.

'Twas a dark day as the greatwood could not bear anymore. As the settlers were to bury another batch of cursed objects, a hand greated them, reaching out of the crack. But 'twas not kind. It was savage. With a slithering noise the accumulated form of the poisoning, a white arm as thick as the greatwood once stood, broke out of it's shell and grabed for the settlers. Breaking bones upon stone, smashing their skulls into pieces, the once clean spirit of the tree did the only thing 'twas able to do. For every curse a life. As to cry "No more of this folly!"

Finishing it's deed, leaving nothing alive, the arm retreated and sealed itself behind a new layer of bark. Unrooting itself the greatwood left the earth behind. It's rotted branches twisted, forming arms and legs to flee from what it's done and as it saw no escape from the monumental home which was erected around it, it crawled into a corner where it remained, trying to turn away from it's misdeeds and the darkness that it helped create.

'Twas to late as the greatwood realised it's horrid transformation. Nothing was left of the once clean spirit. The ones killed by it's wrath, rose again and being afflicted by the Darksign more than ever, started praying, without any recollection of why or to whom. It seemed, the memory of a thing being holy to them, still remained tied to this place. But there was nothing holy left.

The settlement took this spirit for granted and found itself more cursed than ever. It's love was consumed by darkness. It's flesh cursed and rotten. In the end tis was not the work of a curse, but the work of men.

Gone is kindness and all memories of it.

Gone is the flame.

Ringeth bell, ringeth.

Cometh forth ashen one.

Free this wooden spirit from it's plight.

So one may find what once was buried deep inside.

The curse-rotted greatwood.


End file.
